Horror Causes Men To Clench Their Fists,

Confuse Not Love With The Raptures Of Possession, Which Bring The Cruellest Of Sufferings. For, Notwithstanding The General Opinion, Love Does Not Cause Suffering: What Causes It Is The Sense Of Ownership, Which Is Love's Opposite.

I Know A Planet Where There Is A Certain Red-faced Gentleman. He Has Never Smelled A Flower. He Has Never Looked At A Star. He Has Never Loved Any One. He Has Never Done Anything In His Life But Add Up Figures. And All Day He Says Over And Over, Just Like You: 'i Am Busy With Matters Of Consequence!' And That Makes Him Swell Up With Pride. But He Is Not A Man - He Is A Mushroom!

For, To Conceited Men, All Other Men Are Admirers.

We Are All Youthful Barbarians, And Only Our New Toys Bring Us Excitement. That Has Been The Sole Purpose Of Our Flights. This One Flies Higher, That One Faster. But Now We Will Make Ourselves At Home. We Will Forget The Machine, The Tool. It Is No Longer Complex; It Does What It Is Supposed To Do, Unnoticed. And Through This Tool We Will Find Again The Old Nature, The Nature Of The Gardener, The Navigator, The Poet.

He Who Never Says "no" Is No True Man.